


Letters For Asra

by kieleidos



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: 1st 2nd pov ish, Epistolary Format, Other, Pre-Canon, Red Plague, Religious Characters, Tags TBA, Trans Characters, if you see me reposting bc technical difficulties no you didnt, implications of familial abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kieleidos/pseuds/kieleidos
Summary: In which Charo dedicates letters to his beloved, reminiscing in ink to keep himself sane during the height of the Red Plague.
Relationships: Apprentice & Julian Devorak, Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)
Kudos: 4





	Letters For Asra

To my beloved,

The Red Plague is a formidable foe, and the war against it all the more gruelling. I rise before the sun and retire home in her pitch-black wake. Some nights, I return not at all. I've found it more serviceable as of late to shelter in the backrooms of the clinic, as to not squander the vital seconds of those afflicted. To this arrangement, the Doctor has been graciously accommodating (though, woefully, was confined to such circumstances of "living" far sooner than I). 

But between the sickness and sorrow and death, there are little moments to myself sparsely afforded by some merciful Fate. Not moments of relaxation, no — never relaxation — but of quiet. Silence. And, disengaged from the battle for only a second, my benumbed mind wanders back to you. 

Always back to you. 

Within these narrow margins of opportune time wherein I should be sleeping, instead, I am dreaming open-eyed — and all of our memories we've nurtured together arise within my loneliness. I foolishly forgo sleep in fear that the nightmares of the present will intrude upon the sacred mindspace I've carved for you. And thus, beneath this flickering, clinical lamplight, I scrawl these memories as though they are fleeting — as though they may surely escape from me, should I not capture them in ink. 

Our first encounter remains ever so precious at the forefront of my brain. It swells my heart with nostalgia — albeit, it is now tinged with a newfound bittersweetness, as it feels ever out of grasp in my current desolate state. 

Never prior had I attended a Vesuvian masquerade, for travel beyond my domain was strictly forbidden by Elder Estevão. However, in some divine act of metanoia on his part, he loosened his iron grip upon me for but a single night — in permission to visit my ailing Tia in accompaniment to Tio Luísinho. 

(Which — as it seems so transparent now — this change of heart was surely born from a personal desire to banish his guilt encompassing his enfeebled sister, and had little to do with him and I. He sent me as expiation — for even with poor Margarida withering within her deathbed, Estevão remained too imprisoned within his prelatic duties to face her in the end.) 

I suppose, then, by some technicality, I was still committing a grave treason against him when I slipped past my Tia's shop door to sate my young curiosities.

I was compelled by the melody of music waltzing finely upon the air, joined lovingly by the merriment of joyous voices. Laughter, flutes, rhythmic heels — children and adults alike frolicked past in festive gaiety, every soul an enchanting illusion beneath the facade of costume and mask. 

All, but I — nothing more than a lone shadow wading through the rich, crimson sea of light. I felt naked within the crowd in my own bare-facedness, so foreignly misplaced and yet so wholly disregardable by the fanatic masses. In that moment, I did not exist. I must admit that I almost favored that form of incorporeal being — the mere onlooker to the jolly chaos that unfolded around me. 

Thus I meandered those labyrinthine streets beneath the watchful eyes of the red lamplights — taken wherever the pull of intrigue would lead me. I don't even think that I, at the time, had realized I had returned to my Tia's shop when I happened upon your peddling tent (as you had setup on her alley-side wall). Nor do I recall who or what impelled me within — but I forever thank the anonymity responsible for irreversibly entangling our lives. 

Beyond the threshold of your tent was an entirely new realm — as though a portal had carried me into a dimension existing separately from the masquerade just outside. The kaleidoscopic lanterns you had hung from the staves cast a marvelous, prismatic arrange of hues. Their illumination caught upon the swirling wisps of burning incense, creating a whimsical, dream-state aura within. The novel trinkets you had laid out — masks and figurines, all handcrafted, painted, and glossed — glimmered in the light like precious gemstones. Such surreal mystique captivated me unlike any beauty I had ever prior beheld. 

But you, my love, were most beautiful of all. 

You ensorcelled me in all of your ethereal splendor. I swore when I saw you (and I swear even now) that you could not be of this mortal world. No — you were artfully designed by the hands of the gods themselves, every fine feature so perfectly and so lovingly sculpted in your statuesque form. The curls of your hair — still long, at that time, as they tumbled over your shoulders — were surely spun of moonbeams, and your eyes were as bright as the pebbles of plum sapphire we Venterrans proffer to the Magician's altar. 

You were the only one who looked at me — truly looked at me — that evening. And in that single moment, I forgot all of who I was and where I came from — and yet I was utterly, entirely whole. No longer was I some spectral shadow of the masquerade. No longer was I hiding. And, so strangely, I reveled in being seen for the very first time since my very first breath. 

Never had I the courage to tell you when you were still beside me, beloved, but half of my heart had been yours when you smiled at me, then. 

The other half, you would surely secure, too, in our coming years — and altogether, I am yours. 

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I snipped off a bit of the end for plot development reasons.


End file.
